


From Gold

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Geralt Is Just So Oblivious It Physically Hurts, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Jaskier Basically Wonders What Is Love, Jaskier is Having a Crisis Everyone, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Red String of Fate, Soulmates, The Fates - Freeform, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23639704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times he was ever in love. When he was younger, barely out of the years of boyhood, he found it everywhere. In every maiden who laughed at his jokes and listened intently to him sing with coy smiles curled along their lips, his heart would lodge in his throat and the singer who prided himself on his words suddenly found himself not being able to utter any whenever those flames were near.It wasn’t until the years trudged on, and his experiences of the world became vaster, did he learn that whatever it was he found himself feeling for those people was merely infatuation. A flame that would burn itself out sooner or later.Posada was where it all started to change.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 213





	From Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Quick Note Before We Begin: 
> 
> Just a quick message to say that while I appreciate my works being posted to other sites, I would appreciate it even more if you asked for my permission first. 
> 
> My works aren’t on any other fanfiction sites (FF, etc.) - well, that I know of, anyway, but I’m still looking into that - but they are on Goodreads. And while I am grateful that someone thought to upload my work there to be reviewed by others, and credited me with being the author, it was a very jarring thing to see last night when I was googling my own works for a separate issue. 
> 
> Again, I appreciate people wanting to spread my works around and see what the larger population think of them, but I’m just asking that if you do plan on doing it, please send me a message asking for my permission first - you’ll probably get it anyway. But it’s the principle of the thing. 
> 
> Thanks x
> 
> \--
> 
> Also, I have no idea what this fic is supposed to be, but here's 2k words of Jaskier Pining and Over-Thinking.

Jaskier can count on one hand the number of times he was ever in love. When he was younger, barely out of the years of boyhood, he found it everywhere. In every maiden who laughed at his jokes and listened intently to him sing with coy smiles curled along their lips, his heart would lodge in his throat and the singer who prided himself on his words suddenly found himself not being able to utter any whenever those flames were near.

It wasn’t until the years trudged on, and his experiences of the world became vaster, did he learn that whatever it was he found himself feeling for those people was merely infatuation. A flame that would burn itself out sooner or later.

It’s not that the emotion was never there. He had plenty of that. His heart would beat within his ribcage so hard and fast that he would find himself worrying that it might just burst through, and his heart would end up on the floorboards. Floods of words would flow from his lips; promises to maidens and sweet nothings to stableboys and the sons of innkeepers. It didn’t matter who it was, or what was between their legs; Jaskier loved them all. Or at least, he thought he did. He felt something for them, but he couldn’t call it love. The word never sat quite right on his tongue.

It’s a strangely terrifying thing; to suddenly realise that you can’t remember the name of the first person you kissed. He used to. He loved her too, for a time. Years have gone by and now, she’s nothing more than an afterimage with her edges blurred and name completely wiped away. 

He often found himself in love with the idea of being in love. It seemed like a quaint thing; having a person tied to you by strings of fate and destiny. It was a lovely thought, one that surrounded him when he was in Oxenfurt, learning poems and sonnets that spoke of nothing else but that very thing. But it was just a shame that whoever it was that was on the other end of his own string was taking their _sweet time_ about showing themselves.

When he travelled, he stayed in inns – always offering a simple trade of a performance of a few songs for a night of food and sleep. An offer that was always given to him; no matter if the people within those inns and taverns didn’t even listen to what he played. He met people in fleeting instances, where that short-lived burst of emotion followed him, but never amounted to anything.

Posada was where it all started to change, if he was to pick a specific moment. Someone within the clouds above must have heard him wondering, albeit a bit too loudly, what they were doing in regards to Jaskier’s love life. Where was this person whose fate was supposedly intertwined with his? Yes, he supposes, he was only eighteen. He was only a year and a half out of Oxenfurt and his home.

But, gods above, they could at least send him _something_.

And there he spotted him – a Witcher sitting in the corner. At the time, he thought nothing of it. When he approached and spoke with the man, letting a small smile curl along his lip, it felt like how it always felt. Something warm that engulfed him entirely, scalding his blood and stealing all of the words from his brain. He couldn’t sit still either, always shuffling, fidgeting with the handle of his cup of wine.

This could be it. His tongue is heavy in his mouth as he trails after the Witcher. Words fall out of his mouth quicker than he can stop them. Why would he want to stop them? This could be something. His heart skips and his stomach is churning in on itself. It’s what he feels with the others, but so much stronger.

And when they leave the elves, he’s still mulling the entire thing over in his brain.

But—

 _At some point_ , some more logical part of his brain supplied, _this too will fade. And you’ll be alone again_.

 ** _But he spoke for me_**. Jaskier walks ahead of the Witcher and his horse, but when he glances over his shoulder, he finds them following wherever it is that he’s going. His fingers keep plucking at the strings of his newly acquired lute. _He’s just a bard._

Why would he do that? They had just met. In the short hours of them wandering up into the hills, the Witcher made it _pretty clear_ that he didn’t want Jaskier around. Some sort of humanity was in there, somewhere. And by the names of all of the gods, he was going to try and find it.

What he does notice, as the days turn into weeks, and they turn into months, is that whatever is making Jaskier behave in the way that he does doesn’t actually go away. It ebbs, slightly. And he panics. It’s during a night spent in a forest grove. After a day of travel, he’s grateful to rest on a bedroll with a dinner of roasted rabbit and a small portion of potatoes.

There’s a certain familiarity that starts to develop. Familiarity? He doesn’t have the right word for it. And it would make him laugh – a _bard_ not being able to word things properly. But when it’s happening to him, it’s fucking annoying – if he’s completely honest.

He sits quietly by the fire, picking at his dinner, all the while watching the Witcher out of the corner of his eye. Geralt has already eaten his fill and set about running his blades over a whetstone. The scrape of metal is the only thing that’s filling the void between them. That, and the crackle and spit of the small campfire. Occasionally, Roach burrs from her resting place beneath a tree.

He should probably say something. A thank you, maybe. It occurs to him then that he didn’t actually _thank_ the Witcher for convincing the elves to spare his life. Instead, he hums to himself.

Golden eyes flicker over to him. “You’re set on making that song,” Geralt says lowly, turning back to his sword, “even after your newfound realisations about them?”

And he bites his tongue. _Respect doesn’t make history_. He’s already given his reasons. They’re going to be living on the road, making means for themselves. And he isn’t the first bard to stretch the truth for the sake of a song. If bards started turning truthful, there wouldn’t be any new music made for the Continent’s masses for years to come.

Something was going to divert their paths. It was going to happen. The logical part of his brain was always right – a terrible fate, really. Even if the younger version of himself dreaded the idea of parting with the Witcher, feeling a part of himself leaving with the man, he isn’t going to drag Geralt to Toussaint for the sake of an autumn festival. So he leaves. In the morning, when both of them are dressed and finishing up their breakfast at some roadside inn, Jaskier’s grip tightens around the strap of his lute’s case. “So,” he drawls out, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I’ll catch up with you whenever I can.”

Geralt regards him for a moment before humming.

Jaskier maintains that he could hold a better conversation with a stone wall. It would be easier to read too. He never really knows if the glower permanently etched into Geralt’s face is vindictive of his mood, or if it’s just his natural expression.

The walk to Toussaint passes him in a blur. His mind races, darting from thought to thought about what’s churning within his chest. What has his heart fluttering and skipping beats and in danger of coming out up his throat if it _keeps beating like this_.

Is this it? This is what he feels with the others but it’s so much worse. Better? Gods, he doesn’t even know. The world is that bit brighter; even with the trees starting to turn amber and lose their leaves. Even when the winds start to change, he doesn’t feel them nip at his skin.

But he does shiver, and that’s any time his mind wanders back to any notion of Geralt.

And then the nice feeling goes away. One question that stalks Jaskier’s mind always has his wincing, reaching for a tankard of ale if it’s near or submerging himself into a bath of water.

_Does Geralt of Rivia feel the same way you do?_

Geralt is unreadable. Nothing, _nothing_ , has ever given Jaskier the idea that the Witcher actually feels anything.

But the incident with the elves—

Surely there’s something human in there. He knows there is. He’s half-tempted to fuck off out of Toussaint and go and find the damn Witcher and _ask_. But as soon as the courage lights his blood on fire, something quick comes along to extinguish the flames.

Even if he doesn’t – and Jaskier is _really_ hoping that this isn’t the case – but if Geralt doesn’t share Jaskier’s feelings, if he just wants Jaskier around as a companion, that’s fine.

That’s fine? That’s fine.

He’s sure of it.

But his stomach won’t stop churning. Bile threatens to claw its way up his throat.

It’s not fine at all.

Toussaint’s festival passes in a blur of masked dancers and other bards premiering their newest works. It’s his scene – he should be having a great time. But he can’t find himself spending more than a few hours at a time mingling with people he would have otherwise taken to bed.

The idea of it even tightens his throat.

So winter sets in.

All the winters are ever good for is letting Jaskier stew in his own emotions and thoughts. He plays through most nights – which he feels is some sort of a cop-out, as the nights during the winter are so much longer than normal. But if he’s singing shanties and performing polkas and dancing around with drunkard villagers, then he isn’t thinking about anything relating to Geralt of Rivia.

That’s for Daylight Jaskier to think about.

And he’s usually lain up in bed, exhausted from the night before, and the night that will be. So he just stays in bed, for the most part. When he does collect himself, soaking in a hot bath and getting fed by his innkeep’s daughter, he allows himself to just _sit_.

He’s never been able to shut up. Geralt told him as much before he left. But his mind is even worse; galloping around like a yearling colt, from one thought to the next. And, gods above, he thinks he understands how Geralt could be so crotchety with him all the time. This over-thinking nonsense is _dreadful_.

Jaskier leaves with the other bards, drifting out of Toussaint like an exodus. They all scatter, most of them going back to their usual haunts. Jaskier pauses at the crossroads outside of the city. Some performers take their caravan towards Cidaris. Dancers go towards Vizima.

 _Where would he be?_ Jaskier shrugs his lute over his shoulder and heads towards Redania.

* * *

He remembers his nursemaid telling him a story once. She was one of the kinder souls within his house. She always wore a smile that reddened the apples of her cheeks – a smile that should have belonged on his mother’s lips, but one that he never found.

Stories lulled him off to sleep. The nursemaid always kept her voice low; he always suspected that it was because she was mindful of him drifting to sleep. But now, looking back on his childhood, it was probably because the woman was an elf – and his mother would have had an aneurism if she got wind that elven stories were being told in her house, to her children.

She told him about a string tying two souls together. He’s heard different versions of his nursemaid’s story; but from what he remembers of it, when the three goddesses of life started spinning yarn, determining how long a life should be and when it should end, another deity came along to take a segment of the thread. The deity was a mischievous one; they sought out other threads and tied ends together, binding souls. He doesn’t remember if the three women had anything to say about what was going on with their careful crafting, but he could imagine them not being too pleased.

He remembers the soft look in his nursemaid’s eye, resting her chin on her crossed arms as she watched him drift off to sleep. _The thread may tangle and knot and fray, but it shall never break_.

The sun is setting, casting a glow over the skies that will turn dark if he doesn’t settle down somewhere for the night. As the forest around him starts to thin out, opening out on to large plains of farmland, Jaskier spots a red glow between the trees. He squints. A camp. A small fire with a spit roasting seasoned meat. His stomach rumbles at the scent that floats and wisps through the air.

Since the winds have turned, people have been kinder. Innkeepers are sheltering people from the worst of the cold. Food brought in from harvests is given to the rich and poor alike.

Even those camping by the side of the road are willing to share their fires and food if a wanderer looks cold and hungry enough.

Jaskier’s feet carry him over to the fire. With every step, something pulls at him. It’s like sleep. Gods, he wants to sleep. He doesn’t know where he is, or how long it’s been since he left Toussaint, or how long it will be until he reaches Redania; but his bones feel tired.

His ears prick at the sound of voices. The closer he gets to the camp, the more he sees. Three women are gathered around the fire. Neither of them looks up as he approaches. Even the snapping of twigs beneath his boot doesn’t stop them from their work.

Jaskier frowns.

When he’s close enough, he makes out that the women are cloaked in flowing black dresses, adorned with crystals that shine like stars amid the night sky. A length of thread spreads over their laps, eventually pooling around the elder of the three’s feet. The youngest of the three spools the thread, letting it flow like water over to the next woman; someone slightly older. But she holds it up to the light of the fire, gently curling it through her fingers, before letting it slip off to the final, eldest woman.

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Eyelids grow heavier and he starts to sway.

It’s only then do they look up, all at once.

The women regard him for a moment, twirling the length of thread between their fingers.

Then the world turns dark.

* * *

_Did he think that we wouldn’t deliver?_

_You know humans, my dear; they would rather take matters into their own hands than place trust in us that we know what we’re doing._

_But this one didn’t, Sister. He’s just as foolishly blind as the rest of them._

_It was all there. Some of the creatures go years without finding their intended, and this one found his at such a young age—_

_Sister—_

_And he let him go. What are we to do? Come down from the skies and physically shove them together?_

_My dear, we cannot blame those who don’t see what is placed in front of them._

“Jaskier?”

He blinks. All at once, rushing through his ears like blood, are the sounds of the tavern. People chattering among themselves, cutlery knocking against plates, orders for drinks being shouted across the tavern’s main hall. The noise is overwhelming at first, making him wince. But Jaskier shakes his head and looks to where the voice came from.

Golden Witcher eyes stare back at him. “Are you alright?”

It’s the first time in a long time since he’s seen the Witcher – let alone heard the tell-tale rasp of his voice. “Yeah, I’m,” he rubs his face. “I’m fine. I’m good. How are you? Are you staying here tonight or just passing through?”

Geralt lifts his hand. A sizeable coin purse is clasped in his fist. “Took a contract from the alderman. He mentioned something about some wraiths haunting the forests nearby.”

A shiver runs up Jaskier’s spine. _Wraiths_ , he can’t help but think. _Whatever they were, they weren’t wraiths._ Jaskier blinks. _Did he just stumble upon a god’s campsite?_

“What about you?”

“I...I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m heading for Redania.”

“You’re in Redania.”

And...Jaskier looks around the tavern. Its walls are a nice polished mahogany and the ale smells like good, freshly harvest barely. Just outside, through a window, he sees the tell-tale cobblestone streets of the city.

 _Yeah_ , he swallows. _He’s in Redania_.

Geralt just stares at him, unblinking. It’s a bit too much as Jaskier turns away, leaning his arms on to the inn’s bar. He thinks about flagging down the innkeep, ordering as much ale as he can fill his veins with.

But his ears prick at Geralt speaking again.

“How about some dinner?” he offers simply. The Witcher’s head falls slightly to the side. A small, barely-there smile curls the edge of his lip. Jaskier would miss it entirely if not for the amount of light spilling into the tavern and the candles scattered through the room. “You can tell me all about your adventures over a roast and ale.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier rasps. “That. That sounds good. Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier: What is love?  
> Geralt: Baby, don't hurt me.  
> Jaskier: nO.
> 
> Is this entire fic a way for me to vent and process my own feelings on the subject of love and that, even at twenty-four-years of age, I'm still not entirely sure what it's even supposed to be and maybe some of the experiences Jaskier talks about in the first few paragraphs are what I went through? The answer may shock you.
> 
> Every so often I wish that the Fates would appear to me and vaguely threaten me that I need to get my shit together. Or at least, start untangling my thread. 
> 
> tumblrs:  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense) | agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> Stay Safe. Stay at Home. x


End file.
